One Day
by AZGirl
Summary: Almost every night before he went to sleep, he worked on his project for a few minutes in secret. Brujon's determination to pay tribute to a fallen friend leads to a new life after the Musketeers. Spoilers for 3.10 We Are the Garrison.


**Disclaimer** : The Musketeers are not mine. I'm just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while.

 **Spoilers** : 3.10 We Are the Garrison.

 **A/N** : I handwrote a draft of this tag last October, not long after finally watching the series finale. It's just taken me a while to type it up. :o)

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" _Then we'll get to wear the uniform._ "

" _One day, brother_."

 _~~~~~~~Clairmont and Brujon, 3.10 We Are the Garrison._

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Brujon had very limited space in his saddlebags to bring anything personal with him to the war front. Thankfully, this one item was small and could easily fit in amongst his extra clothing.

Almost every night before he went to sleep, he worked on his project for a few minutes in secret – or as secret as you can be while riding with a newly-promoted general on the way towards the war front.

Before he'd left Paris, he'd gone to the closest leathersmith to inquire about a tool that would help him properly do what he had in mind. By coincidence, the leathersmith, Corier*, that he visited had made the object he wanted to alter, but the man had balked at even speaking to him at first. Corier then threatened to go to his new Captain and have him punished for daring to even suggest altering his new uniform without permission or orders to do so.

Sensing the man was overly proprietary of everything he created, Brujon told Corier a story.

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It was about two young men who had never met until they both stepped foot in the Musketeer garrison on the same day. It continued on to describe how they had become the closest of friends, brothers of the heart, whose upbringings had given them the common ground upon which to build their friendship. The two had become a good team, with each spurring the other on as cadets, and hoping they may one day become commissioned Musketeers.

They were brothers-at-arms even though they were only cadets, and they supported each other through battles, both big and small, to reclaim Paris from its enemies.

On the day the garrison was attacked, Brujon had just that morning been assigned to help Madame d'Artagnan with setting up a location for those who wanted to drink a toast in honor of Minister Tréville. He knew the Inseparables were taking the death particularly hard, and was happy to help in any way possible. The last he'd seen of his best friend, Clairmont had been unhappy over being one of the cadets assigned to guard the garrison while the others were at the tavern.

In the chaos at the time, his primary concern, the only thing he had been thinking of, was the survival of Madame d'Artagnan. His actions had been pure instinct, reaction instead of caution or consideration. The explosion happened and debris had rained down upon them; after that it was a matter of keeping them both alive.

Afterwards, when they had been rescued, _that's_ when he'd begun giving thought to who else had been around when the garrison had been so violently attacked. When he first saw Clairmont, it felt as if his heart had sunk into his stomach. His brother was hurt so, so badly that recovery seemed impossible. Yet, Clairmont miraculously lasted through two operations to remove shrapnel from his body.

Clairmont lasting the night gave him the hope he'd been lacking that the two of them would once again stand side-by-side with their fellow Musketeers. Unfortunately, that hope was snuffed out all too quickly.

Just when he thought his brother was getting stronger, Clairmont had instead died.

His brother's wounds had been too grave to overcome. The actions of Grimaud and Marcheaux had killed his best friend and brother cadet. Those men had destroyed the garrison, but…they had not destroyed his home – or the rest of his family. Many of his fellow Musketeers were still alive, and they found a way to avenge all the wrongdoings those men had committed, including the murder of Minister Tréville.

Brujon concluded his story by stating his certain faith in the idea that the garrison would be rebuilt stronger than ever.

Though he was leaving for the war front, he was taking the garrison with him in spirit as a fully-commissioned Musketeer. And, for his friend who had only ever wanted to be a Musketeer, Brujon was determined to honor Clairmont's wish to wear the uniform.

He wanted to do it right and with the right tools, but if the leathersmith wouldn't help him, then he would find a way to do it regardless.

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When he had concluded his story, Corier had not said anything for what seemed to be a long time. Years could've passed as he and the other man had locked eyes, each wondering what the other was thinking, but in reality, only a few moments had gone by.

Then, Corier smiled slightly, and went to his work bench. Grabbing a small tool and a scrap piece of leather, the man taught him how to do what he had in mind.

When he had learned as much as he could of the technique in the amount of time allotted to him, Brujon had tried to pay the man for the tool and the extra piece of leather he was given to practice on, but Corier had refused more than a few meagre coins from him.

It had taken him a few days to figure out exactly how and where he wanted to do it. In the end, he decided on a simple design since Clairmont had never been one for embellishments of any kind. The only embellishment his friend had only ever wanted was a Musketeer pauldron.

Each time he worked on his project, he would practice that night's work on the scrap of leather before attempting to do anything permanent to his pauldron. The swivel knife* felt strange in his hand, but he ignored that feeling in favor of concentrating on doing the best he could on his chosen design. His friend deserved nothing less than his best efforts.

The first part of the design was a little shaky, his unfamiliarity with the art of tooling leather obvious. But, by the end, he felt more confident with the process, and that he'd done a decent job despite being a complete novice at the craft.

It wasn't until he had finished altering his pauldron that the General had confronted him.

Porthos had sat down next to him by the fire, and held his hand out. "Let's see it then."

Brujon almost feigned ignorance, but he wouldn't deny what he had done in remembrance of his best friend and brother.

With a bit of trepidation over having defaced his uniform, Brujon unbuckled his pauldron from his doublet and handed it over to the General.

Porthos immediately flipped it over and carefully examined the underside. After several long, agonizing moments, where the General said nothing, Porthos ran a finger lightly over the inexpert design before handing his pauldron back to him.

Brujon had expected the older man's, his commanding officer's, first words to be of censure and punishment, but instead Porthos just asked why he'd undertaken the task. At first, he was surprised by the question, but then he'd taken a deep breath and answered.

Clairmont's last words were of wanting to wear the uniform of the Musketeers, but that would never happen now. In adding an inscription to the underside of his own pauldron, Clairmont could at least be part of his uniform even though his brother would never have one of his own. It was a way to keep his best friend close, and a way to help him remember why he was fighting, why being a Musketeer was so important.

The General had stared at him with a frown on his face for several long moments. Then he'd smiled broadly, nodded once, and praised him for his work in memorializing a fallen friend. Immediately afterwards he'd laughed out loud before admitting he'd done something similar to his old pauldron. Relieved by the tacit approval, Brujon smiled, feeling happier than he'd been since Clairmont had passed away.

They'd sat in silence for a time, but Porthos eventually broke it by asking him how he had gotten such clean lines using a dagger. Brujon confessed it wasn't done with any regular blade he carried, and showed him the swivel knife Corier had sold to him for such a good price.

They were quiet again after that, watching the flames of the campfire before them, and waiting for the rabbit he'd caught to finish cooking. Just as he was about to reach for the meat to serve them both, Porthos asked if he would inscribe something into his pauldron as well.

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And that was how it began.

Word had somehow got around the camp about how he had chosen to honor Clairmont's memory. Occasionally, one of the other soldiers would ask him to do something to theirs. A word, design, or both would be etched into something made of leather that the soldier carried with them into battle. At times, his handiwork had been the only way to identify some of the men after a few particularly devastating battles. Even though he never asked for anything in return, the men he did the work for found a variety of ways to repay him – a few coins, fresh supplies when possible, or doing some of his assigned chores.

A few times, when they'd occupied a town for any length of time, Brujon would seek out a leatherworker and acquire a new skill or tool to try out and perfect. He'd also learned how to make repairs to leather goods along the way.

When he was eventually reassigned back to Paris, somehow making it home in one piece, he continued slowly learning more and more about the craft of working, shaping, and dressing leather. Finally, after having enough of war and being a soldier, Brujon resigned and went to work for the man who had given him his very first lesson in the art of working leather.

And, in due time, Brujon became the one who made the Musketeers' pauldrons, inscribing the undersides with names and symbols representing the family and friends of the soldiers – just like he had done for his best friend and brother, Clairmont.

To the end of his days, Brujon would recall the first day he'd worn the pauldron with the completed inscription. They were to face the Spanish in a skirmish designed to prevent the enemy from crossing a river and taking over more territory.

When the signal to advance had been sounded, he'd had only one thought before his mind was consumed with the fight:

 _Today is that one day, brother. Today, you too wear the uniform._

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 _The end._

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 **Story Notes** **:**

 _ **Corier**_ : The surname used is actually the Old French word for one who dresses and colors leather after it is tanned.

 _ **Swivel knife**_ **:** One of the primary tools used in carving leather.

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 **A/N:** While I have several ideas for what Brujon inscribed in his pauldron, I decided to leave it up to the reader's imagination instead of revealing them. Anyone care to share what they came up with?

I was wondering when to post this story, when I realized Bastille Day was coming up. In case you didn't know, today is Bastille Day (la Fête nationale; le quatorze juillet), which commemorates the Storming of the Bastille on 14 July 1789. However, something I didn't know about the day was that a military parade is held every year (since 1880, except for during WWII) during the morning. The Bastille Day Military Parade is one of the largest and oldest military parades in Europe, and I thought this aspect made it fitting to post today.

Many thanks to Celticgal1041 for proofing! Remaining mistakes are my fault.

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_


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